Bourbon Confessions
by Tarafina
Summary: She's a giggly drunk.


**Title**: Bourbon Confessions  
**Category**: Smallville  
**Genre**: Romance/Angst  
**Pairing**: Chloe/Oliver  
**Rating**: T  
**Prompt**: Picture by ellashy  
**Word Count**: 2,555  
**Summary**: She's a giggly drunk.

**_Bourbon Confessions_**  
-1/1-

She's a giggly drunk; the kind that dances with no specific move in mind, laughing all the while. She looks free and happy and some part of him can't help but be glad that he's baring witness to this part of her. She's so hard lately; so jaded and weary and waiting for the worst. When they got together he'd hoped that might fade; yes, it was just sex, but he thought it would relieve some of her stress and return her to that sweet person he'd once known. It doesn't. If anything, now he feels like she has more secrets and more problems and while he's right there, within reach, with an ear open and a shoulder to cry on, she won't let herself do that. She'll touch him, kiss him, lay completely naked before him on a bed of green satin sheets, but she won't tell him why it hurts, how he can make it stop.

When he gets home from patrolling, she's there; she's already drunk half a bottle of bourbon and while his lower half reacts to how she's provocatively dancing almost half-naked in his living room, his upper-brain is wondering what brought her down so much. He can't help but watch though, as her hips rock side to side, her skirt drawn up almost indecently high, showing off long, taut thighs. She's unbuttoned her blouse, untucked it from her skirt, and it hanged open, revealing her bra-cupped breasts and creamy skin. It slides down her shoulders, hangs at her elbows as she raises her arms and dances in circles, barefoot and on her tip-toes, listening to the music from the stereo as she grins to herself, eyes closed.

He swallows tightly as she twirls, as she laughs freely, a warm ripple of a giggle escaping her throat. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair in disarray as if she's combed through it with her fingers and left it wild. The confines of his leather pants seem tighter, too much so, and he knows he's going to take her before he gets any answers. He has to shake it off because there's obviously something wrong, something that had her coming to him, getting wasted, and playing the innocent drunk in his living room. Chloe Sullivan never lets down her guard and for her to do it now means he has to pay attention. Curling his fingers into fists with resolve, he winces; his left palm is sliced open thanks to a jerk waving a knife around recklessly; at least it gives him something to focus on rather than her petite dancing form.

Leaving her to her fun, he finds the bathroom and cleans out the scrape with iodine before wrapping it in gauze. He takes the time to change out of his leather outfit too; exchanging it for loose sweat pants and a black muscle shirt. He'll need a barrier between them and he knows as soon as her fingers are on his skin he's going to start giving in. Just the thought of her out there, heated up and interested in doing more than just grinding air made him hard and wanting. He shook it off, however, took a deep breath and told himself he would _not _screw this up.

When he steps into the living room, she's bent over at the stereo, searching for another CD. He follows her feet to her waist, pausing as he sees green lace peeking from between her thighs. Scrubbing a hand down his mouth, he swallows tightly. She's going to be the death of him. Walking toward her, he tries to keep his eyes on the back of her blonde head, on riotous curls, but his gaze slides to the nape of her neck, the slopes of her soft, bare shoulders, and follows the line of her curved spine. He clears his throat, partly to stop himself from giving in and also to alert her he was there.

Had she been sober she would've seen him coming before he'd even arrived back at the penthouse.

She whirls around, eyes wide and startled but mouth curling with a becoming smile. "Hey…" she greets, forgetting her music to walk toward him.

His mouth goes dry the closer she gets and he almost backs away when her hands reach for him. He stands his ground though, even when her palms lay flat on his chest, fingers curling as if she wants to get rid of it already and sink her nails into his flesh. _Oh god…_ He wants to give in.

"Party started without you…"

He glances at the bourbon on the coffee table and to the shoes she kicked off, her purse dropped on the couch alongside her suit jacket. "I can see that…" Unable to help himself, his hands fall to her hips and squeeze. "What are we celebrating?" he asks, staring into her deep green eyes, searching for some kind of sign.

She looks away, smile wavering. "Can't we just have a little fun once in awhile?" she wonders before turning her eyes back to his. "Forget everything and every_one _else…"

He wants to be her solace, the one person she can turn to, but he also knows that she wants sex, that she thinks this is all it's about. And it isn't, it never has been for him. He didn't figure that out until the first night she let him touch her though; until the moment he heard her cry his name and arch for his questing mouth. The moment he kissed her, took her lips as if they were his now, property of Oliver Queen, he knew he was done for. She'd kick his ass if she heard his possessive thoughts but he couldn't help that Neanderthal shortcoming.

"And who are we trying to forget?" he asks, sliding his hands up her sides, thumbs rubbing her naked skin.

"Mm…" she moans, eyes fluttering as she leans her body in close to him. "Everybody who isn't you and me!"

He likes the sound of that; even wants to drown the rest of the world out with the other half of the bourbon and focus all of himself on _them_. But it's not alls he's talking about, he knows. She might not let him in far, but he still knows her better than just about anyone.

"Can I get any names?"

Pouting, she glowers up at him. "You're not playing the game, Ollie!"

He half-smirks. "And what game's that, Sidekick?"

She glares but she was too drunk to pull it off with her usual blunt anger. "We banter, we make-out, and then we screw until I'm very, _very _satisfied…" Sliding her hands up his chest, she cards her fingers through his hair. "No questions asked, remember?"

She's drawing him down and he's weak enough to let her. He can feel her breath on his lips, her nose nuzzling his, and watches as her eyes fall closed. Her hips sidle in close, pressed against his just right, and for a moment he feels himself let go, give in, and then she kisses him and he can taste the liquor on her tongue. Chloe drank, but never this much, never so much that she lost _all _of her inhibitions. She's always careful to keep some barriers between them; it wasn't until she was half-drunk on sex that she let a more intimate side of herself show. Then, exhausted, she might let things slip, might talk to him about how she was feeling or work. But when it got too close, she always pulled away, even when it was obvious he wasn't.

Drawing back from her, he lingers, kissing her lips lightly before he sighs. "Can I guess?"

Thumbs rubbing his neck, forehead pressed to his, she nods ever-so-slightly.

"Clark?"

She wrinkles her nose, shakes her head.

"Lois?"

Same response.

He hesitates to ask the next name, but breathes it out regardless. "Jimmy?"

He's tense, waiting the inevitable hurt that would mask her face.

But she does no more than shake her head.

Now he's confused. There's not a whole lot of people that were close enough to Chloe to bother her.

"The team?"

She blows out an annoyed breath. "One in particular," she allows.

"Okay…"

She hasn't talked to AC or Dinah in a week or two; they were both on missions out of state and he doesn't see any reason why either of them would butt heads with her. Bart stops in often but if his constant flirting hasn't driven her nuts, he doesn't know what the young speedster could have possible done. And Victor isn't usually the type to get this kind of reaction; he and Chloe don't argue, well, ever.

Which leaves _him_.

"Is it… _me?_"

It doesn't make sense to him considering the last person someone would usually go to was the one that bugged them, but then logic didn't often run hand-in-hand with alcohol.

Loosening her arms from him, she steps back, turns and starts walking sloppily away. "See… This is why there's no questions!" she exclaims. "It's like you already know the answers. So why both asking?" Throwing her arms into the air, she whirls back around, eyes narrowed at him. "This is _all your fault_, Oliver Queen!"

Frowning, his brows furrowed. "Care to elaborate?"

Sighing, she made a grunting noise of aggravation. "You're _so_… And then you… And then _I_… And _we_…!"

Half-smiling, he shakes his head. "Not quite up to date on the picture here yet… Maybe whole sentences would help." At her scowl, he shrugs. "Just a suggestion."

Shaking her head, she begins pacing, and as she does so she raises her hands to comb through her hair, but the way her blouse is hanging makes it uncomfortable, so the next thing he knows she's yanked it off and thrown it away. For that matter, she apparently decides most of her clothes are not needed, as she was soon undoing her skirt and kicking it away too. Now walking back and forth in her green panties and black bra, she mumbles angrily to herself.

He's starting to think just ignoring the problem might've been a better idea.

Sighing, he walks toward her. He's already half-way into the doghouse, might as well finish the job. "Chloe…?" Reaching out, he takes her arm and tugs her to a stop. "Can you just talk to me? Please?" Staring down at her searchingly, he waits for her to figure out what she wants to do. "I have no idea why you're mad and I _want _to, I do…"

Suddenly, anger melts into sadness. "_That!_" she exclaims. "That is why I'm upset!"

He blinks. "Huh?"

"You!" Growling, she shoves him, only more annoyed when he doesn't so much as budge. "You're so _understanding _and _accepting _and you always want to talk or listen or- or _hold me_!" she spits each reason like they're something to be guilty for. "How is this supposed to be _just sex _when you're making me fall for you every single time? It's like… like you can't _help _it… You're just always there and you're so _snarky _and you've got an answer for everything I say and you just make me feel so…" Shaking her head, she blinks back tears. "You just make me _feel _and I don't _want _to… I don't want to, Oliver…"

Surprised, he isn't sure what to say, so instead he hugs her. Wrapping his arms around her, he draws her close until her face is buried in his chest. And she fights him at first, tries to push him away, but then she sags, letting loose, and just cries. Hands gripping the back of his shirt, she sobs, shoulders shaking, and she lets him hold her up. He strokes her hair, murmurs against her ear, and rubs her back; does whatever he thinks might calm her down, might make her feel like this is okay. It's a few minutes before she stops, before she's all cried out and the tears are done. And then she's just holding him back, her arms falling to hang loose around his waist, fingers knotted at his back.

"'m tired," she tells him.

Half-smiling, he nods and reaches down to pick her up in his arms. She gives a slight shriek, her arms wrapping around his neck, and she looks up at him, smiling. The tears are still there, wetting her cheeks, but she's not weighed down by them anymore.

"You still mad?" he asks, walking toward his room.

She shakes her head, eyes falling as she plays with a loose thread on his shirt.

"Still drunk?"

Chuckling, she nods. "Verrrry…"

Laughing under his breath, he lays her down on the bed and grins as she scurries under the blankets.

But as he steps back to leave she makes a noise of disapproval. "Where do you think _you're _going?"

Amused by her, he looks back. "Thought I'd clean up the mess you made of my living room…"

Shaking her head, she falls back on the pillows with a sigh. "Come to bed."

Leaning in the doorway, she cocks a brow. "You really think you've got it in you to keep up tonight, Sidekick?"

She glares witheringly, "Shut up and come to bed." Pointing to the empty side next to her, she motions impatiently for him to join her.

With a laugh, he closes the bedroom door and crosses the room to lay down next to her. Cuddling up close, she seems to relax into him in a way she's only done after mind-blowing sex. And then she sits up suddenly and he thinks she's come back to her senses. His heart stops in his chest, his stomach clenching. But with a grunt of irritation, she only undoes her bra, tosses it away and then lays back down. Calm like he's never known, overwhelming relief, floods him. Arm wrapped around his body, she lays her head on his chest, tucks it against his shoulder and closes her eyes. "Better," she murmurs on a sigh.

With the blankets pulled up around them, he wraps an arm around her back, bandaged hand laying just over her side, while his other hand slides up to cup her bicep, thumb gently stroking her skin. Looking down at her as she lays completely comfortable, nearly naked and cocooning herself in him, he feels his smile slide away. Would she even remember this in the morning? he has to wonder.

"Oliver?" she drunk-whispers, which means she's not nearly as quiet as she thinks.

"Hmm?"

"I kinda love you," she breathes softly.

Stroking her hair back from her temple, he swallows thickly. "I love you, too."

"Mm," she sighs dreamily. "Night."

He nods tremulously. "Good night."

And as she falls asleep with her lips curled in a smile, Oliver can only hope that come morning, she doesn't take it all back. He can't sleep, can't close his eyes, in fear that it will all become a dream. With dawn approaching, he hopes for the best, because while she can only admit to deeper things when drunk on bourbon, he's already come to grips with the reality of it. He does and will love her the rest of his life and now all he has to do is make her realize she feels the exact same way.


End file.
